An open letter on loss

Three years ago at this time I became pregnant. Nausea ruled my world for 13 weeks, but I was elated. At what should have been the first "real baby" ultrasound with a regular OB-Gyn, as you blog readers already know, I saw that sweet baby, but it was not moving. The image of him/her laying still, sweetly curled up with hands together and feet tucked as though asleep on the screen, not encouraged by the jiggling of the u/s probe, is indelibly marked on my brain.

The thirteen weeks I was pregnant with that child seemed like much longer. From the minute you decide you want to go down the path to conception, you already flash a whole timeline of love-infused life for that child. You love the baby before it is a baby, before it moves ever-so-butterfly-like in your stomach. You imagine holding your baby, shushing and rocking, cooing, changing the diapers, teetering steps, school days, teen angst, and even that someday there will be an adult whom you are proud to have raised and who loves you in your old age.

It matters not when you lose a child. Nothing fills the void ever. You do stop crying on a daily basis. At first, for me, it was just because life needed me to function. I know how to operate a toaster. I can make my coffee. Trivial things like these propel you forward. I gave myself time to cry, time to physically heal, time to not care that I was slightly pudgy and even wore a two piece swimsuit with abandon during that time. Slowly, slowly, I did find smiles again. I did not find anything to replace the baby I lost, though.

I was reminded of my journey through that loss when I cleaned up my office a few weeks ago (and it is already back in it's state of entropy) I pulled out a file folder titled Thank yous and Sorries. I keep thank you cards for a while in there, why I'm not sure but I never really feel good throwing away someone's gratitude. I also kept two of the most gut-wrenching "sorry-for-your-loss" cards from our miscarriage days. These were both from women who'd lost a pregnancy (or two). But they were night and day in difference. One had an etherial nature with words, intended to comfort, about how God had different plans for my baby. I took no comfort in that. The other was disjointed and passionate, as if soul-searching for anything but knowing there was nothing to ease my pain. It ended with the words "I would never say to you 'it was probably best' or 'don't worry, you can have another' well-meant but insensitive. Instead what I say is that we are so very sorry, and that you have experienced a very real loss of a very real child. As with any loss, it will get easier with time, even though it will be with you forever." Indeed.

Now people tend to "remind" me that we would not have the ebullient Evie in our lives if this baby had continued to grow inside me. True, but not helpful. Not that I am pissed off about their words not being helpful, it is just that NOTHING is helpful. Saying nothing isn't a loving response, so I completely appreciate the effort people make to comfort you, but words fail. It is such a huge thing to lose a growing baby inside your body. Full stop. Then to have the painful, humiliating experience of dealing with doctors and out-patient surgery to scrape the womb out, well, that is the LAST thing you want to do. I wanted to crawl in a hole with noone there. Find a rewind button and make it all stop happening! No, but you can't.

Today I shed a few more tears, in memory, in my heart forever. Little one. And for J+B, only love and empathy as you mourn your own.